


Dura fights Grukaak

by Mercykiller



Category: LARP - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercykiller/pseuds/Mercykiller
Summary: A shaman picks a fight with the hunter





	Dura fights Grukaak

The shrill sounds of crickets filled the warm air of the late afternoon, drowning out all the other sounds of the forest. Dura usually enjoyed the quiet moments of her hunting trips but the incessant and inescapable chirping of the insects was frustrating and she ground her teeth in annoyance at her failure to catch any game larger than a rabbit, and the ones she had caught were scrawny and lean with hardly enough meat on them to make them worth a meal.  
Shoving her way past a few orcs and a goblin at the camp gates she wove her way through the mass of tents to her own, which was now located closer to the large war tent that dominated the camp even from a distance.  
Slinging the brace of rabbits over a tent pole she shed her hunting gear, dumping bow, quiver, and dagger at the entrance shaking the day's dust from her clothes, pulling a few twigs from her dreadlocks and flicked them to the ground.  
Kicking off her boots she stepped into her tent and carefully stepped over the sleeping furs strewn across the floor. The younglings had taken to leaving toys hidden around the tent that would cause her discomfort if she stepped or laid on them. They had been scolded a number of times already but they were still to learn, perhaps the threat that Grimgar would eat them might instill some better behaviour.  
Having made it across the tent unscathed she picked up the small bag she had brought with her to Elysium, her possessions were still few but here were her most prized. A doll her daughter Shel had made, a woven band of leather and boar teeth from her son Ushnar, her ritual knife, a small icon of The Dark Mother, and an orc tooth wrapped in wire and inscribed with carvings.  
Collecting up the ritual knife and icon she left the tent, cursing loudly as she stepped on a rather sharp set of knuckle bones on the way out.  
Taking one of the rabbits from her hunt along with a small bowl she strode back through the camp, making her way towards the outer edge where she knew the shamans held council and the clan kept their ritual space, stopping only once to trade half of the rabbit for a skin of sweet liquor.  
Off to the side of where the shamans resided was a small ring of stones. At 3 points around the circumference were small pit fires, behind those were roughly assembled effigies of each of the gods, animal skulls decorated with trophies of kills made in their name propped up on frames of collected branches, trinket and talismans strung across them as if they were jewellery.  
Bear, wolf, raven, she looked at each and felt nothing. She might be a hunter of Gajutar but she knew she would never gain his favour, not truly. Her spirit was bound to the Dark Mother Dresha, a smaller Goddess of her homeland, she was unsure if Votar’s orcs shared even a fraction of her pantheon beyond the major Gods. Still she would make a place for herself.  
Taking her first step into the stone circle she slowly walked past each of the effigies, dropping chunks of rabbit into each of the pit fires. The head for Shatraug, for the eyes and brain revealed all to the god of magic. The shoulders and forelimbs to Gajutar, for he was swift and could make a meal of anything. The ribs and heart to Rogtar, because the most meat always went to the strongest. Offerings made to the other gods she settled herself at an unoccupied point and laid out everything. The icon of Dresha was of a female orc wrapped in furs with a calm but fierce expression on her face, a bundle clutched to her breast, a baby swaddled to her back and another clutching to her leg. Dura placed the bowl in front of the icon, rested the ritual knife over the top and placed the skin of sweet liquor next to it.  
“Mother of all, welcomer of the dead. I give thanks to you, you led me to a new home, a new family and a chance to seek my revenge.”  
Picking up the knife she cut into the flesh of her wrist, scars already littered her forearms and she winced as the blade cut through the existing toughened tissue, stabbing the blade tip into the ground next to her. Blood oozed from the wound and she held her hand over the statue until the surface dripped with the deep red liquid, only then binding her wrist with a strip of cloth. Picking up the skin of sweet liquor she uncorked it with her teeth and poured a portion into the bowl and drank the rest.  
“My offering is small, my words are quiet but my will and strength is strong.”  
Dura remained seated for a few more moments before pouring the contents of the bowl over the statue, the liquor and blood mixing together and pooling at the base, it took time for the liquid to soak into the earth and the statue to dry, Dura sat in silence the entire time. Dresha was a goddess who didn't need loud war cries, words proclaiming her name or deeds pledged in her name. She just was there, the figure to which mothers prayed to when they wanted children and as they brought that life into the world and hoped to survive, the arms to which orcs hoped to be received by when their spirit left their bodies. She was a quiet goddess, but earn her scorn and she'd come down on you like any mother would, harsh and unrelenting in punishment but always with a lesson to be learned.  
The moon was high in the sky, the camp was now illuminated with fires by the time Dura collected her possessions, picking up the icon last she removed herself from the stone circle only to be immediately confronted by the shuffling form of Grukaak, the shaman as always was decked out in the dark layered rags he called clothing, the healing totem hanging from his belt along with his glinting carved obsidian ritual knife. His dark brown skin was mottled with age spots that muddied the colour further, white hair chopped roughly so it ended at his shoulders with bones and feathers woven through it.  
Dura narrowed her eyes and stepped past the orc to make her way back into the camp proper only to have him follow closely behind her, not saying anything just shuffling a step or so behind her. She carried no fondness for shamans with the exception of the one who called herself Mulag, whose companionship she rather enjoyed.  
They made it past the first few tents before Dura rounded on the older orc her patience now completely depleted.  
“Unless you want something, go away.” She growled.  
"Paltry offerings to the gods won't help you be stronger.” He chided straightening his posture to meet her glare.  
“Who says I needed their help?” Dura snapped back, flashing her pointed teeth.  
“Praying to weak gods won’t help you either.” Grukaak pressed on, clearly enjoying the reaction he was eliciting from her, a gleam entering his eyes.  
Dura snarled at his arrogance, she took a step forward getting right up close to the shaman, the odor of burnt spices and rank meat filling her nose.  
“Do not assume I am weak because of the goddess that I choose to follow.” She hissed, biting each word as she spoke it in anger.  
“Fitting a weak female would pick a weak god.” Grukaak spat at her feet and grinned, his hand rested on his healer’s totem, idly playing with one of the trinkets that hung from it.  
“No wonder you come crawling to me in battle asking to be healed.”  
Dura practically bristled with rage, it took all her self-control to not descend on the orc and tear him apart.  
“Mind… your… tongue…” She managed, clenching and unclenching her fists, turning on her heel and walking back into the camp only to have Grukaak continue to shadow her further.  
“If you coddle those younglings they will be as weak as well, you should leave their care to Gorag.”  
Dura dropped the precious items she was carrying to the ground and launched herself at the older orc a feral cry bursting from her lungs, making several of the orcs around them look up from what they were doing.  
Fights were common enough, but rarely with a shaman, the more feared of the clan members even if one was fairly new. So, seeing a hunter charging at one of the shamans was an uncommon sight and quickly drew the attention of those close to the pair.  
“Don’t speak of things you don’t know.” Dura screamed and slammed her shoulder into the meat of Grukaak’s chest, sending him staggering back a few paces, just enough space for her to swing a right hook into his cheek.  
The blow connected and the shaman’s head snapped back.  
“You’ll regret that woman.” He growled straightening up and spat blood on the ground as Dura lunged for him again. She threw another punch at Grukaak, which to her surprise he caught, landing his own punch on her chest and making her buckle inwards. To late did she see the follow up knee to the face and she was knocked backwards with enough force to wrench her arm out of his grip.  
Grukaak came at her again with another haymaker punch, Dura leaned back and kicked out with her foot, smashing the punch away from her, closing the gap quickly she drove home a punch to his gut, following through with a left hook and then smashing down his head with an elbow to his face as it came back up to snarl at her.  
He lashed out with a leg sweep and Dura tumbled to the ground with a grunt, as she began to push herself up Grukaak lashed out again with a swift kick to her mid-section, his boot caps connecting with her stomach and knocking the wind from her.  
“Stay down if you know what’s good for you.” Came a whisper in her ear as she lay on the dirt gasping for air, turning her head and glaring directly at him, her lip curling into a snarl. She received another kick for her efforts, but on the third she grabbed onto his ankle and rolled away from him, pulling him down to her level.  
They lay there for a moment catching their breath and Dura could just make out a growing crowd as the news of the fight spread. There was mutters of confusion at the reason of their fight, Dura could hear others betting on who might win. She was thankful at the very least no one had to intervene and tried to separate them, she wouldn't stop until the shaman was groveling and taking back the words he'd spoken out of arrogance.  
She was the first to get back on their feet and she took a moment to catch her breath, a mistake as she felt Grukaak make a grab for her while her back was turned from him.  
But Dura was faster, with a twist of her hips so she was side on to him, she caught his hand in her own and pulled, throwing him over her shoulder and back onto the ground in a puff of dirt.  
Despite his age Grukaak was on his feet again quickly and came lunging in at her, she made to punch him down again only for him to sweeping under her guard and lock his hands around her throat. She clawed at his arms when he lifted her up, using her own weight to do most of the work of choking the life out her for him. He ignored the deep scratches on his arms and just squeezed harder. Dura’s vision swam and distorted at the edges, she lashing out at his face, sharpened nails sinking into the soft tissue of his cheek she raked down, her fingers came away wet with blood and she could feel flesh under her claws.  
Grukaak threw her away with a grunt of pain and clutched at his bleeding face as Dura tried to catch her breath. Finding the wound superficial at best the shaman leapt towards her trying to grab at her again.  
Catching his arm before he could get a good grip Dura pulled him in close and headbutted him in the face and Grukaak roared in pain, as he staggered from the impact, nose now bleeding profusely, she tackled him to the ground. They rolled, each trying to get the upper hand but Dura had had enough practice from raising younglings and their want to play wrestle she knew where to throw her weight to have the edge.  
She punched down into his ribs forcing to exhale, she pushed him off and over onto his back. Legs on either side of his waist she sat her full weight on his chest and punched down at his face.  
Grukaak didn't give up easily and punched at whatever was in his reach, landing a solid strike on her ribs that she had broken only a few months before. With a howl of pain she grabbed his face, nails digging into the flesh of his face, her thumb right on the deep gouge she'd inflicted earlier. She squeezed, eliciting a continuous growl from Grukaak.  
“Fuck… you... “ She panted, taking another body blow as he tried to free himself from under her, she could feel his own claws raking at her legs and back.   
All of a sudden he stopped and a grin spread across his face, he shifted ever so slightly and Dura caught a glint of something reflecting in the firelight, the crowd that had gathered around them hissed with disapproval, Grukaak had freed his ritual knife and stabbed up towards her back. His poor angle meant it missed anything vital and just sliced the muscle over her ribs, making her howl. As he pulled back to stab again pushed herself up, using the hand around his face to bear her weight, dropping her knee into his sternum she kicked out with her other and pinned his arm down with her foot, pressing her face next to his she whispered.  
“Drop it before I tear your ear from your head with my teeth.” Her breath was hot from the physical exertion but her words dripped with cold intention.  
“Ognir will taste your fear, curses on you.” Grukaak seethed, spittle flecking his lips, his hand still firmly around the weapon, Dura pushed her thumb into the wound on his cheek, scarred lips pulling as she sneered to reveal her pointed teeth, the longer canines were etched with markings.   
“Drop…. it.”   
With a grunt Grukaak unfurled his fingers from the dagger and let it drop from his hand silently indicating his submission and ending the fight.  
“I'm going to get up, if you do much as move against me I will make sure you can't move for a month.” She threatened and pushed herself off the shaman, stepping to the side where he had dropped the dagger and kicked it further away from him, towards the feet of the gathered spectators, who immediately shuffled back from the weapon as if it were a curse to be near it.  
Grukaak slowly picked himself up off the ground and growled, spitting on the ground at her as he, watched Dura collect her possessions from the ground, her face pinching in pain when she bent to pick the items up.   
Dura shot a glare over her shoulder at the shaman who was shuffling across to pick up his dagger, no doubt his ego had also taken a beating and he would need time to get over the pummeling he'd received. She walked away from the gathering and towards her tent, anger still simmering just below the surface.


End file.
